Blood Web

by Tessa Dawn

  Santos shut his eyes and meditated on Natalia’s words, allowing them to sink deep inside his consciousness…to wrap around his immortal soul.

  Truly the gods were more than generous.

  They were more than benevolent and more than omniscient.

  They were wise, infinitely kind, and worthy of veneration.

  And Santos would be forever grateful that they had chosen Natalia Giovanni, ArabianNight500, to walk in this world beside him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  One week later

  Keitaro and Zayda walked hand in hand along the long, winding trail that led to Santos’ hidden lake on their way to the sentinel’s sunset mating and naming ceremony. They had driven three-quarters of the way before leaving Keitaro’s forged-copper Nissan Armada Mountain Patrol parked behind the Dark Moon Academy and setting out on foot to enjoy the crisp, clean air and the spectacular views.

  Zayda’s hand felt comfortable nestled inside Keitaro’s palm: warm, trusting, and companionable. There was nothing romantic or inappropriate about it, no reason for Keitaro to worry that he might be sending the wrong type of signals. In fact, that was just the thing of it—Zayda’s signals were no longer crossed. Her circuits were no longer…broken.

  Ever since that night at the old cobblestone well, Zayda Patrone had been different: calmer, rational, reasoned. She had let down her defensive guard, relinquished her unseemly advances, and settled into her own skin like she was finally comfortable wearing it. Zayda had actually made Keitaro feel at ease with their association. While she was still childlike—her uninhibited laughter; her playful, impulsive nature; her wide-eyed wonder at the world all around her—she was no longer childish at times. Rather, she had approached Keitaro as an equal, hoping to be a friend as well as his ward.

  The Ancient Master Warrior still didn’t know what to make of it, only that she had gone into that well broken, damaged, and terrified, and she had come out purged, strong, and resilient. At first, he wasn’t sure if he could trust it—the subtle yet powerful transformation in her personality—but day in and day out, one conversation after another, Zayda had proven that the change seemed lasting. The healing was real.

  “I can’t believe she invited me to the ceremony,” she said softly. “I can’t believe she invited us.”

  Keitaro glanced at his companion sideways with amusement. “It would seem that Princess Natalia is very eager to meet you. She can’t wait to see you after all these years.” Again, two weeks ago, Keitaro would have had to tiptoe around such a sensitive subject—Zayda’s childhood and growing up in The Fortress—but now they could speak openly about difficult subjects.

  Zayda rolled her stunning, mythical eyes at the reference to Natalia Giovanni as a princess. “Yeah,” she acknowledged, “she really was like a legend to me, and I guess my mind invented a fairy tale to make it all more…digestible.” She shook her head. “And in that story, it would seem Prince Oskar was not a knight in shining armor after all, but a really evil villain. Oskar Vadovsky was a Dark One.” She shivered, and Keitaro squeezed her hand for reassurance. “Vampires…werewolves…Dark Ones,” she murmured absently, apparently taking inventory of her strange new world. And then shrugging her slender shoulders to dismiss the heaviness of such reveries, she pivoted back to the initial conversation. “I’m just surprised that Natalia remembered me after all these years.”

  At this, Keitaro smiled warmly. “I’m not,” he said. “You’re not so forgettable, Zayda.”

  She flashed an appreciative grin and then they rounded a bend in the trail, and the beautiful crystal lake came into view. Zayda stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes shooting to the crowded pier. “Dear gods,” she whispered, her arms dotting with goose bumps. “There’s so many of them.”

  Keitaro released her hand, slid his arm around her shoulder, and ran his palm up and down her skin, as if he could smooth out the prickles with his fingers. “You remember Santos, right? The male with the black-and-blond hair? That’s Natalia’s mate…her husband.” He pointed in the distance. “The warrior standing to Santos’ right is his brother, Ramsey Olaru. The woman beside him is Tiffany, Ramsey’s destiny, and she’s holding their son, Roman.”

  Zayda nodded slowly, her lips mouthing each name as if she were trying to commit it to memory.

  “The guy on Santos’ left is his other brother, Saxson—Saxson and Ramsey are twins. The female is Saxson’s mate, Keira, and their child is Legend.” He waited while Zayda absorbed the information.

  “And that terrifying gladiator, the one with the mahogany hair and the overwhelming presence?” she asked.

  “Ah,” Keitaro said. “That’s Julien Lacusta, the valley’s tracker. He works very closely with the king and the sentinels. His mate isn’t here, possibly because he’s not direct family, and these are very close-knit ceremonies. It isn’t unusual to only see one’s brothers and their mates, unless there’s an equivalent familial connection.”

  Zayda paused for a couple of seconds, considering Keitaro’s words. “Then Natalia thinks of me as her family?”

  Keitaro shrugged. “She must, or we wouldn’t be here. In a way, it makes sense…”

  Zayda tilted her head to the side, processing the vampire’s words, and then she drew in a deep breath for courage. “And the other one…” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. “Good Lord, Keitaro, he’s absolutely petrifying. I don’t know if I can go near him. He’s…he looks like…from what you’ve described, he looks like he’s from the house of Jaegar!”

  Keitaro barked a good-natured laugh. “That’s Saber Alexiares, and I assure you—he’s one of us, one of Napolean’s sentinels. As long as you’re on the right side of the house of Jadon, you have nothing to fear from Saber.”

  She took a cautious step back. “The king.” She swayed in place. “At the tip of the pier.”

  Keitaro braced the small of her back with one hand to steady her. “Yes. That’s Napolean Mondragon—he’s here to officiate the ceremony. I assure you, he’s harmless as well.” He paused to rethink those words. “Okay, so harmless and Napolean don’t belong in the same sentence, but I assure you, he is no threat to you.”

  Zayda gulped, trying to settle her nerves. “Well…” She rubbed a sweaty palm against her dress. “And to think, I used to believe the guards in The Fortress were the most dangerous and menacing men I’d ever seen. They look like harmless children compared to these beings.” She shook her head in wonder. “Your race is unbelievable…kind of horrifying, really.”

  Keitaro laughed out loud again before considering his next words carefully. “So is yours, Zayda. Formidable, I mean. The lycanthrope. Don’t forget, your race hunts ours by instinct.”

  Zayda turned to face him. “Keitaro, you don’t think—” She licked her bottom lip in a curiously wolverine gesture without even realizing it. “The sentinels—are they going to have a problem with me being here? With my species? Will they fear that I might do something…instinctual?”

  Keitaro shook his head in earnest. “No, Zayda. I think they’re going to be aware of you, and I think they will have a guarded respect for your nature. But believe me when I tell you: The sentinels don’t fear much of anything—or anyone—no matter what race one comes from. They serve our king for a reason.”

  At this, Zayda shuddered.

  “Too strong?” Keitaro asked.

  She hesitated. “Maybe just too real.” She started to reach out for his hand, once again, then immediately pulled it back. Natalia Giovanni was walking up the path, heading in their direction, and she looked like a supermodel in her strapless summer dress: a light, golden antique cotton, with three simple bows stitched across the front, and three billowing layers, falling to mid-thigh, displaying long, shapely legs. Zayda’s eyes zeroed in on the proud cast of Natalia’s shoulders, then her level chin, and possibly, her easy gait—Keitaro could not be sure—before traveling naturally to the hem of the dress: The back fell a little longer than the front, perhaps to mid-calf, and the
material rippled as Natalia walked, sweeping against her smooth, bronzed skin in rhythmic waves.

  Zayda’s hand shot self-consciously to her thick lion’s mane of wild amber locks, and Keitaro wondered for a moment: Did she have any idea just how beautiful she really was? “Zayda, you look lovely,” he whispered, so only she could hear.

  She briefly shut her eyes, her features softening with appreciation. “Thank you, Keitaro,” she said, and the sincerity in her voice was both thick and earnest.

  “Zayda?” Natalia called, as she approached within five or six feet.

  Zayda took a tentative step forward. “Miss Giovanni.”

  Natalia shook her head. “No,” she argued. “Mrs. Olaru, but please, call me Natalia.”

  “Natalia,” Zayda repeated, shuffling a couple more inches forward.

  Both women stopped about three feet apart. Their eyes met and their gazes locked, a lifetime of emotion passing between them. “Your eyes,” Natalia whispered, “they’re mesmerizing.” As if she were viewing a priceless artifact behind a locked glass panel, Natalia studied the much shorter girl with an open show of reverence. “I’ve never forgotten them…or you,” she murmured, and her own deep-brown orbs filled with tears. She fought valiantly to keep those tears at bay, but in the end, she couldn’t hope to restrain them. She extended her arm, her graceful hand trembling, and waited for Zayda to take it. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted, beginning to sob. “I’m so, so sorry, Zayda.”

  Zayda placed her palm in Natalia’s open hand and swiftly closed the distance between them. “There was nothing you could do,” she said, her voice sounding hushed and regretful.

  Natalia’s elegant, proud shoulders folded inward, and she began to tremble as she wept. “Oh, Zayda, if you only knew…there simply are no words…no way to tell you. In some ways, I was as much a prisoner as you were, but don’t get me wrong”—she withdrew her hand and held it up in protest—“I don’t mean to make a comparison—there’s nothing to compare. What happened to you was unimaginable…unconscionable. My family…my father…that horrific fortress. Oh god, can you ever forgive me?”

  Zayda didn’t hesitate to respond, only her reply was wordless.

  She wrapped her willowy arms around Natalia’s equally delicate shoulders and pulled the trembling woman into a full embrace. “I’m glad you got out, too, Natalia,” she whispered in her ear, and Keitaro had to turn away for a moment—the exchange was too intimate to witness.

  He thought he heard Natalia whisper something next…

  Something about mercenaries…something about obedience…something about doing the only thing she knew how to keep Zayda and the other women alive—something about wondering if that choice, too, had been the ultimate privileged cruelty.

  And at that point, Keitaro turned down his hearing and tuned the conversation out.

  The Ancient Master Warrior didn’t know how much Santos had shared with Natalia up until now: whether or not the sentinel was waiting for the perfect moment—for the naming and mating ceremony to be over—before telling his destiny about the fate of her father and Luca’s goons. Needless to say, Julien Lacusta had made quick work of tracking his quarry, following the night of the raid on the Giovanni compound, and Luca Giovanni, as well as his right-hand man, Domenico, were no longer above ground.

  The same held true for the four heartless mercenaries, men who had hidden safely in other countries, ready, willing, and able to slaughter dozens of innocent women at a moment’s notice. It had taken the tracker a bit more effort to sniff the hired killers out, but money always left a trail.

  Before he had passed away, Luca’s deceased lawyer, Max Brazilian, had deposited the five million dollars each in four separate offshore accounts, and Luca’s private ledgers had revealed the secreted banks and countries. Julien had started with the actual banks, and he had not needed Santos to hack into their records, not when he could compel the current managers to dig up whatever information he wanted. Going back over the time period in question, he had devised a list of all the banks’ customers, those who opened or held such large accounts, and then, one by one, the tracker had paid each man on the list a visit.

  A quick delve into their minds.

  A quick scan of their memories.

  And Luca’s infamous henchmen had finally been revealed.

  Had it been time consuming? Sure, a little bit. Laborious? Absolutely. But Julien Lacusta was a vampire, and he could travel as fast and as far as he wanted. In the end, the world was better off without the miscreants, and since any loose ends in Natalia’s life were now HOJ business, Julien had put the entire matter to rest.

  For good.

  The tracker had spared no lives.

  Speaking of Julien, Santos, and the house of Jadon, Keitaro thought, the warriors on the pier have got to be growing restless. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Santos Olaru began to meander in Natalia’s direction; his gaze shot up the hill to the females; and his large, imposing shoulders began to twitch with nervous energy.

  Yep, the sentinel was getting worried.

  And if Keitaro didn’t call him off in the next two seconds, he was going to transport from the pier, materialize in the middle of the two women, and interrupt a very sensitive, important conversation.

  Keitaro waved his hand and shook his head, trying to make eye contact with the anxious vampire. Give them a few more minutes, warrior, he spoke telepathically on a private line. They have quite a few…threads…to unravel. This conversation has been a long time in coming.

  Santos nodded half-heartedly, but he didn’t look reassured.

  Just then, Keitaro heard Natalia say something about mercenaries…something about her father…and something far too vile to repeat about The Reaper, and Keitaro knew that Santos had told her everything.

  And now, Zayda was also aware of the truth.

  A light flashed in Zayda’s eyes: Whether it was understanding, relief, or a spark of righteous indignation—the girl finally had some justice, albeit indirectly—Keitaro couldn’t tell. But she was half Lycan after all, and now, all her enemies, including Xavier Matista, were dead. There had to be some freedom, if not innate satisfaction, in knowing that truth.

  “I’m only sorry I wasn’t there myself to slit their throats,” Zayda murmured in an icy voice.

  Alrighty then, Keitaro thought. Question answered.

  He shrugged. The female was different—she was wiser, more discerning, more even-natured—she wasn’t impotent or dead. And she wouldn’t be half human, or even sentient for that matter, if she felt any other way.

  Natalia’s throat visibly constricted as she swallowed what appeared to be mixed emotions and expressed her understanding to Zayda.

  Lowlife or not, Keitaro thought, Luca Giovanni had been Natalia’s father. And that’s when Keitaro knew he needed to take his leave. The final layers in this tangled web were too convoluted for a third party’s intrusion. The women would get through this together, and perhaps over time, the history, the memories, and the process of grieving—accepting and making peace with all that had happened—would be less of a burden, now that it was shared.

  Perhaps Zayda and Natalia could help heal each other.

  In truth, the world they now lived in was just as brutal and unforgiving—vampires suffered no enemies and took no prisoners—but Zayda and Natalia’s futures were ripe with hope, potential, and protection, more than either woman had ever known.

  Content in this knowledge, Keitaro Silivasi shimmered out of view, allowing the females to conclude their reunion in private.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Now that Natalia and Zayda had joined the assembly on the pier, their emotions seeming to be more settled and an obvious bond forming between them, Santos breathed a sigh of relief.

  He hated to see his mate upset, but Natalia had waited a lifetime to come face-to-face with Zayda—the little girl with the faery-princess eyes—and despite their candid, open conversation, Zayda would likely never
know how her ghost had haunted Santos’ destiny all those years or the power of the threat Luca had held over his daughter’s head: the thought that a simple act of disobedience could lead to Zayda’s death as well as all the other women’s executions.

  Santos felt a primal growl collect in his throat, and he swallowed the feral impulse, regarding Julien Lacusta instead—the tracker had handled the business. It was time to let that piece go. Luca Giovanni would never terrorize another woman, let alone his daughter, Natalia…

  The woman Santos loved.

  Santos blinked to dismiss the thought and turned his full attention on his stunning destiny: Truly, Natalia looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale, herself, in that simple but elegant dress. And those smooth, bare shoulders; that regal, delicate collarbone; that long, shapely neck…

  Santos needed to control his thoughts.

  Later, he told himself.

  There would be lots of time for that…later.

  He smiled warmly as Natalia’s eyes met his, and following the couple’s cue, Napolean Mondragon cleared his throat, standing just a bit taller from the apex of the pier. “It is with great joy that I greet you this day, my brother, my sentinel, a fellow descendant of Jadon, a Master Warrior, mate to the daughter of Delphinus, father to this newborn son of Canes Venatici—the hunting dog who makes his home beside Ursa Major,” the monarch began in a melodious tone. “What name have you chosen for this male?” His intense, penetrating onyx eyes, with their haunting silver slashes, fixed on the babe in Ramsey’s arms. While Santos was the eldest of the three Olaru brothers, Ramsey was next in line, being born just five minutes before Saxson, and that made it his duty to hold the child for the ceremony.

  His heart swelling with pride, Santos said, “Should it please you, my Lord, and find favor with the celestial gods, the son of Canes Venatici is to be named Laiseri Andrei Olaru.” Despite his previous calm and his obvious joy, Santos’ handmade Brioni suit suddenly felt a size too tight. He had wanted to look handsome for Natalia, but now he wished he had worn something a little more loose-fitting—say, a T-shirt or a tank top—the darn thing was strangling his throat!